It Takes Two When it Used to Take Only One
by Eyeneversleep
Summary: An epic of slowly falling in love, living and building up a beach house together in fall in Cape Cod. Both are working together on a short turned long job. Arthur is not his typical self as he lets loose and enjoys all things New England & fall. Major h/c


A/N: This fic was written for a few people/prompts from livejournal's Inception kink meme: It was written as a "thank you" fic for a friend-She wanted a lot of adorable Arthur/Eames handholding.

It was also written for a prompt that wanted Arthur and Eames on a long job in New England, Arthur loving fall and all the things that come with it and Eames content with just watching him until finally one day he can't…

Also:For two prompts that wanted some h/c involving Eames being in danger, getting broken and really just being the one that receives it!

And the title of this fic comes from the Ryan Adams song:"Two" which the fic is also loosely based off of!

Please don't forget to review! :)

* * *

It Takes Two When it Used to Take Only One or Five Times Eames took Arthur's hand and one time he didn't...

I

The salty air is breezy and light. He flicks his tongue out to it, tasting it. The seagulls float lazily to the shore, riding on thermals.

The autumn afternoon sun is being absorbed through his light shirt, heats his chest. He unbuttons a couple buttons of his shirt and rolls his shirt sleeves up.

He kicks off his shoes and digs his crooked toes into the crystal sand. He's never seen sand this light colored before, never been so close to the ocean. It's a blue he's never seen and he feels grateful to see it like this before it turns tumultuous and gray.

He walks the beach, shoes on his fingers, gulls are crying, cumulus clouds are fluffy and low in the sky.

It's perfect.

Almost.

A slight breeze ruffles his hair.

The sun working his tan.

He thinks he would love to take him here. Wonders if he's already been here.

Story of his life.

* * *

The job near Cape Cod is supposed to be a short one.

He's not even sure why he's taken it thinking he could do a million other things with his time, make better money elsewhere.

Arthur briskly walks through the factory, nose in a folder, a slight spring in his step as he's weaving in and out of tables and makeshift desks, like slalom skiing almost like he's an Olympian athlete.

Eames' breath catches in his throat.

That's why.

That's why he's teamed up with a semi-retired but not really fully retired after inception Cobb and their new architect named Johnny in the old deserted meat packing factory.

It's because of him.

The factory holds a stale smell and Eames swears he can smell animal blood and rotting tissue but that could just be the rats. He can see in his mind men in aprons dressed head to toe in goggles and plastic, can hear them cutting off heads of animals, plucking fur or feathers, grinding, pounding, mashing. It was a place of great brutal activity. Eames likes the history hidden in the walls.

For some reason they're set up in the main portion of the factory. They had started at the offices but not liking the stuffy atmosphere so they moved. He had forgotten whose idea it was.

It was better in the main portion with the high ceilings, crisscrossing catwalks, many windows and alcoves.

He felt he had room to think, the breathe, to take in the sights…

Arthur seems to practically glide past him-lighter than air.

He's certainly in a mood. He files that away for later, makes a point to look into it.

* * *

For some reason he ends up renting a house. A little shack is more like it.

Upon arriving he falls instantly in love with the sand, with the ocean, the salt breeze.

The beach house is just that. It's nestled into the sand, pushed up right alongside the ocean. He can take a few steps off the front porch and be there and he does just that. He spends a good amount of time on the beach.

Its wood is buckling, exterior white paint flaking horribly like it has dandruff and when you move around inside it seems to swell and shift under your feet. Everything inside is ancient, things work when they feel like it and everything is drippy and leaky. The shack is a little off kilter like maybe it's sinking into the sand itself.

He loves it.

It reminds him of the house he grew up in. His small, former home in the rolling lush green hills of the English countryside.

He likes the idea that he can buy this house if he wants. Likes the idea that he can fix it up for real and stay.

But why would he?

Arthur is moving up the beach, jacket thrown over his shoulder, his expensive shoes sinking into the sand with every step, the late afternoon sun in his dark hair, a crooked smile on his face. Eames is partially hidden beneath the overhang on the front porch and he observes him in shadow.

He's never seen Arthur look so content. Arthur's looking out to the ocean, strolling without a care in the world, seeming to take his time and Eames lets him.

He makes his presence know when Arthur's a few yards away from the walk up to the house.

He looks down at him from the porch, arms crossed, half his mouth twisted up in a small smile. Arthur is still suppressing a grin, wind ruffled hair, tie slightly askew from the breeze, sand in shoes.

"I wanted to see the beach shack that you can't shut up about." His tone is as light and airy as the salt breeze.

Eames beckons him with his head.

He turns and opens the rickety screen door, practically falling off its hinges. He hears Arthur's quick footfalls on the steps up to the porch like maybe he's eager. His smile widens when he feels his presence at his back. He holds the screen door open for him.

They both slip in.

* * *

They're dancing around each other caught in each other's paths in the small space like planets orbiting around each other.

And it's different. They're not in the factory. They're in Eames' temporary home, swelling and bursting at the seams, things crammed into a too small of space.

All Eames wants to do is take Arthur's hand, lead him upstairs, take his tie and gently lead him on the bed so he's on top of him. He would undress him slowly, smelling the ocean and sun on his skin and hair, make love to him on the tiny, springy bed with the faded white quilt, mark his skin with his mouth, have him once in this place, fall asleep and wake with him to the ocean in the bare, open window, curl his fingers in his hair and whisper him promises as he tells him not to leave his bed.

He would keep him here, play house with him by the ocean but it's like trying to keep sand in your cupped hands, it leaks through the cracks, dissolves and blows away. He can't stop the tides from turning and he can't change Arthur's heart.

* * *

Eames is good in the kitchen. He's flitting back and forth on bare feet and jeans through the small space, taking inventory of what he has, gathers what he needs. He hadn't exactly expected Arthur to show up announced but he's not entirely unsurprised as well. It's an odd feeling-nostalgic, old, true and exciting all at once. He tries to make idle chit chat with him as Arthur is tripping over this and that, exploring his temporary space curiously, touching things faintly. His curiosity makes his heart sore, his head thick and dizzy and his tongue stalls.

Arthur eyes him curiously after examining the bookshelf.

"I brought wine."

Eames is cutting carrots.

"Of course you have, darling."

Arthur smiles. And then they're doing a little dance in the small, warm kitchen as Eames is tying off the lamb and Arthur is rifling through drawers for a bottle opener. They bump into each other quite a bit, so intimate in a domesticated sense and neither of them say a word. Both pretending it didn't happen and are so focused on their tasks they can't bother to mention it.

Arthur looks relieved when he finally finds the bottle opener, his cheeks flushed slightly pink.

Eames fishes out two glasses and their fingertips brush ever so lightly when he hands them to him. Both look away too quickly.

Eames mumbles that they could eat outside and Arthur agrees that would be nice, politely not mentioning that the ambiance inside leaves something left to be desired.

It'll be a while for the mutton to be finished so they take their glasses outside and are content with lounging in the wooden chairs on the front porch dusted with sand. They watch the lazy waves, lovers walking hand in hand, working the coast, fisherman boats casting off, gulls flying aimlessly. It's peaceful with him sitting silently next to him, sipping his wine, the sun setting, bouncing gold off the waves, the autumn wind picking up, cool breeze hitting their faces.

They chat about the job and other safe subjects. The conversation flows easily, the good wine helping.

Arthur seems a little disappointed when Eames excuses himself and slips back inside, having to check on the lamb.

Arthur is beside him before he knows it when he's closing the oven. He offers to set the table and Eames nods and hands him the plates and silverware.

He can't get over how different Arthur is. He can't put his finger on it. He's more relaxed, his moves are lighter, seeming to absorb his surroundings more instead of trying to fade into them. Like he's at peace with this place.

His theories are proven correct when they are on their second bottle of wine, Eames' wine; finally eating after the lamb took longer than what he planned. They're set up at a little table in the backyard. There's a million stars out. He can still hear the waves amongst the scrapping of forks and knives on their plates.

"I grew up around here," Arthur says between chews of roasted lamb, mash, carrots and brussel sprouts. He's relaxed, tie long forgotten, the first couple buttons of his dress shirt undone. He pauses to roll up his sleeves and Eames can't help but stare at his forearms-mysterious skin finally allowed to show itself. His forearms shouldn't be mesmerizing but they are like he's seeing something he shouldn't.

"Not 'here' here but in a tiny town in New Hampshire. Sometimes my parents and I would come to the Cape for a weekend."

Something seems to settle in Eames, like a blanket being put over him or warm water enveloping him.

Arthur is looking around with a faraway look in his eye and Eames knows he's remembering or trying to remember. They both had chosen a profession, a life that has them running all the time, flitting from place to place, never allowed to stay too long. But Arthur's roots are here. He imagines that when he takes a step things are being laid, things left deep in the earth, leaving his mark.

He watches him intently as Arthur's eyes seem to soften and glow. He loves this place that much is evident.

Eames is pleased that Arthur doesn't want to clean up right away after they finish. They swirl their wine, kick back and Eames gets the sense that maybe Arthur is just enjoying his company. They're looking up to the endless stars and talk moves to constellations.

Eames learns quickly that Arthur knows shit about astronomy and he finds this adorable.

Arthur tries to point out the Big Dipper but Eames corrects him, suppressing a laugh.

He shouldn't be amused that the point man knows less about something than him but he is.

Eames points out other constellations to Arthur's amazement.

"There's Orion," and he traces it with his outstretched finger. Arthur looks around feebly. They're both a little sloppy with drink, saturated and content with the heavy food and good wine.

"It's right here," and Eames takes Arthur's hand, makes him point his index finger, raises Arthur's hand and traces Orion's Belt in the sky for him. "Do you see it now?" Eames asks, his voice warbling, betraying him, his warm hand enveloping his.

Arthur's large eyes are trained to the night sky, the brilliant stars reflected back in his dark pools. He nods a little. "Yes, I see it," and there's something in his voice too, something under the surface. When Eames brings Arthur's hand down he rests it back on Arthur's knee but he continues to hold his hand like he's forgotten it's there. But he doesn't forget.

And Arthur doesn't move it. He's given this, this small intimate moment. Arthur lets Eames' hand envelop his, rested on his knee for probably a good two minutes to Eames' wonder before Arthur is shrugging it off, gathering their plates, looking flushed.

They collect everything and slip back inside.

* * *

Eames scrapes things into the garbage while Arthur is rinsing plates off. They do this silently like they've done this for years-each having their own appointed household chore.

After cleanup is done, new drinks in tow they stand and talk in the kitchen, Arthur on one side of the counter and Eames on the other-again like well practiced duties.

They move into the living room after a time and Arthur says he wants to show Eames something. He fishes something out of the dilapidated, leaning bookshelf. They settle into the lumpy, old couch. It smells musty and the springs dig into his bottom. If either man shows any discomfort neither lets on.

Arthur shows him that it's an old photo album, left by the pervious renters or maybe first owners.

"Found this when I was poking around earlier…"he trails off as he opens it. "Thought it was worth a look," Eames scoots in closer to him, their thighs practically touching.

Arthur holds the album and flips the pages. They're old pictures, mostly black and white, crumbling, frayed, scratched, much like the beach house itself.

They're families-vacant stares, closed expressions, children at their feet looking small and morose. And then there's New England landscapes and other exterior shots-beaches, lighthouses, boats tied at the harbor. Arthur likes these and points out some of the ones he likes. Eames finds himself liking the same ones. The album is big and by the time they've almost reached the end Arthur's eyelids are drooping, he's yawning quite frequently and he nestles back into the uncomfortable couch.

Eames is studying the last page-pictures of rows of beach houses much like the one he's rented. He's opening his mouth to comment when he hears a soft snore. He darts his eyes to Arthur's face and he's asleep, head lolled back into the couch, abandoned photo album in his lap. Eames watches him for a moment-Arthur's true vulnerability exposed.

He takes the photo album out of his lap, lays Arthur down on the couch and removes him of his sand filled shoes. He feels the small bones of his ankles, the strong muscles under his surprisingly soft skin. He gives them a squeeze before throwing a thin afghan over him. He switches the lights off and slowly slinks upstairs, unable to take his eyes off him as he climbs, the small, dark creature curled under a blanket, snoring softly, it echoing off the thin walls too mesmerizingly. So vulnerable and diminutive, like the small house is cradling him, protecting him.

He enters his bedroom, closes the door silently and stands behind it, closing his eyes and breathes, just breathes, palming his totem.

This is how Arthur comes to stay with him.

* * *

II

He awakes to strong smells wafting into the small bedroom.

He blinks awake, sun hitting him square in the eyes, blankets starchy on his bare limbs. He stretches and again reaches for his totem, surprised but pleased with the results.

He throws on an old, faded t-shirt to compliment his threadbare pajama pants and pads downstairs on bare feet, the stairs squeaking and creaking as he goes.

He hears a loud noise from the kitchen. It sounds like a blender. He didn't even know he had a blender.

He passes through the living room. The afghan is folded up neatly on top of the old couch. No evidence that anyone had slept there at all.

He pads towards the kitchen and he's almost sorry that he does. It's like a bomb has gone off-it's a disaster area. He stops abruptly when he's looming in the doorway and tries to make sense of what he's seeing.

Arthur, in his wrinkled and rumpled clothes from the night before, sleeves rolled up is working a blender, apples are scattered all over the counter along with what looks like every single scrap of kitchen utensil, tool, bowl and other serving ware. Other bits of odds and ends are piled and scattered on the butcher block and every other remaining surface.

Arthur hasn't noticed him yet, too focused on his work. Eames watches him stop the blender and pour the contents through a cheesecloth that's over a container. Once he poured all the liquid through he works the other bits through the cheesecloth, gently coaxing them through like a patient parent. Eames smiles.

Arthur somehow feels his presence and looks up at him briefly, almost doing a double take. He blushes a little and Eames' smile deepens.

"I hope I didn't wake you," he's shifting the container, inspecting its contents.

Eames watches him intently and when Arthur doesn't hear a response he looks up at him again, his dark hair looking bed ridden, curling at the ends, face still has sleep lines in it.

Eames shakes his head and waves his hand a little in a "please continue" gesture. He's too afraid to speak, to break the spell that Arthur has cast on the little shack.

Arthur smiles a little, brushing some hair back behind his ear.

"I'm making apple cider. I made coffee too," he's removing the cheesecloth, licking his long fingers of the juices as he goes.

Eames wants to go up to him swiftly and silently, catch his wrist and lick the apple remnants off his fingers. Wants to wind his fingers into his messy curls and cover his mouth with his own. Wants to sweep the counter of the debris and prop him up on it instead, wrapping his long legs around his torso, taking his sticky hands and placing them around his neck and kiss him until he they both can't breathe, until the small, warm kitchen is spinning and dissolving away around them, until they are both clinging to one another for support.

Instead they stare at each other. Arthur is closing the container tightly and Eames blinks at him.

Eames clears his throat. "Ok," he finds himself saying, vocal chords barely working.

He has Arthur under glass like an insect. He's afraid that if he asks too many things, looks too closely, steps incorrectly or says something wrong that the glass with shift and break and that he will fly free. So he says nothing at all, afraid to touch him. Afraid that sloppy, boyish smile on his face with disappear, that the muscles in his back will tense up, and that he'll button up, constrict and cut himself off once more.

They move around the small kitchen together silently. Arthur is putting his container in the fridge looking pleased with himself. Eames hands him a mug. He can smell him in their close proximity. He smells like the old, musty couch, the beach house, the ocean, the salt breeze, apples and a little like Eames himself. Eames looks away, blushing, unplugging the old percolator.

"Sugar or cream or both?"

* * *

"Do you just walk to the factory? I didn't realize it's so close."

They're both outside after taking their time to enjoy their morning coffee, some apples and taking turns showering. Eames offered him some of his clothes but Arthur politely declined. He thought that the idea of wearing the same clothes a second day would repulse the other man but Arthur showed no signs of being put out. In fact it looked like quite the opposite.

They've taken their time and both know they are late for work but neither mentions it. Again Eames is afraid that the glass will break, that the fairytale will be shattered.

"Yeah, I walk. It only takes about ten minutes." It's one of the many reasons why he chose the shack.

"Ok," and Arthur sets off down the beach, shoes sinking heavily into the sand.

Eames stares stupidly after him for a moment. Watches the morning sun in his dark, curling hair, the waves lapping the shore, sparkling from the rays. Arthur looks over his shoulder when presumably he notices that he isn't following, shooting him a curious look. Eames jogs up to him.

They walk the beach and Arthur is closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, a faint smile on his lips like he's remembering something.

Eames thinks he's never seen him look lovelier.

They leave the shack and the beach behind, climbing the little hill, cresting it and reaching the parking lot. Eames feels like they have reached civilization and feels a little pang of loss.

Arthur has his hands deep in the pockets of his wrinkled trousers as they walk the leaf ridden streets-full of pretty reds, yellows and oranges-like a carpet laid out for them. Arthur is watching the ground intently and Eames enjoys watching him.

They chat about this and that, more or less about work but when Arthur treads over fallen leaves Eames can see Arthur close his eyes and presumably listen to the CRUNCH they make as his shoes step over them, his face bright and rosy. It takes all of Eames' willpower not to stop him in the middle of the leaf covered sidewalk, bright morning sun lighting them up and making them look even more vibrant, cup his face with his hands and kiss him deeply.

But Arthur is fishing an apple out of his pocket, is shining it on his rumpled jacket and is biting into it loudly, juices dribbling down his chin and the moment has passed.

Arthur enjoys the apple immensely, the look of elation on his face evident. When he finishes he holds the core in his hand, looking around presumably for a trash can. They're nearly at the factory now. Eames meets his pace and helps him look. Arthur is looking to the left and Eames is looking to the right. Eames spies one coming up. He reaches for the apple core still in Arthur's sticky hand. Eames pauses and envelops Arthurs's hand instead, like he's forgotten what he was doing and is struck by how Arthur doesn't flinch or move away.

He holds his hand awkwardly, sticky, warm fingers brushing, both of them not saying a thing. Arthur's eyes are trained to the almost barren trees, the sunlight that peeps through the leaves that are still hanging on for dear life.

They make their way to the trash can and Eames regrettably untwines their fingers, releasing Arthur of the apple core and tosses it. It's only then that Arthur peers at Eames like he realizes something is missing. He quickly looks away when Eames meets his gaze, wiping and flexing his fingers on his trousers.

They walk into the factory together but don't make much eye contact nor talk to one another much throughout the rest of the day.

* * *

III

The job in Cape Cod is supposed to be a short one.

But the client is turning fussy, difficult, flippant and more and more demanding adding more things to their already planned extraction. It was supposed to be a routine corporate espionage-one business wanting the secrets of another business to ruin them. First the client, the boss of the small company, just wanted them to extract the secrets from the boss of his top competitor, how they run their business, what clients they use, their marketing and advertising tactics, etc but then it turns more personal and the team suspects their client has a personal grudge against the mark.

Now the client wants them to go deeper and extract personal secrets as well suspecting that the mark has a certain mistress, wanting to slander him as well as ruining his business. He throws more money at them, promises more when the job is done and done successfully.

Cobb wants to tear his hair out, knowing he'll be away from the kids longer, Johnny paces the factory floor, pinching his eyes, swearing under his breath and Eames and Arthur sit quietly, not saying a word, secretly and completely ok with the job going longer and more complicated than planned.

It means more point work and research for Arthur and more tailing, observing and forgery for Eames. Neither of them complains.

* * *

They're walking back from the factory after a long, grueling day. It's late and the early morning brilliance that bathed the streets previously is replaced by street lights and the moon's glow.

They've barely spoken two words to each other all day since their morning walk and the silence continues as they work the sidewalk slowly. It doesn't irk Eames at all; his presence is a solid one next to him on the pavement.

"I'm going to run to my hotel, grab my things, catch a cab. I'll see you a little later," Arthur is reaching for his cell phone. Eames blinks at him.

"What are you making for dinner?" Arthur is searching his Blackberry for a cab company, looking around at the dark, empty streets, everywhere but Eames' face.

Eames falters, feels like he's been hit over the head. He imagines the glass that he's put over Arthur shifts. He struggles to compose himself, to hide his true elation.

"What goes with apple cider?"

Arthur bites his lip but he can see a slow smile appear as he's looking at his phone.

He shrugs a little.

"I don't know…maybe seafood?"

He glances at Eames finally and his eyes are shiny and warm. They both smile.

Eames sucks in a breath and nods.

"Yeah, I think I have something." He tries to sound nonchalant but fails.

Eames stays with him awkwardly until the cab comes, huddled together under a street lamp. He again has to refrain from pulling at Arthur's sleeve working his fingers into his collar and pressing their foreheads together, brushing his lips to his in a: "I'll be waiting for you when you come back so hurry up" kiss, a needy goodbye but not really goodbye kiss. He settles on a smile and a nod and watches Arthur get in without a backwards glance. Watches the cab kick up leaves as it zooms down the street.

The walk back to the shack seems to take mere seconds instead of minutes. He's riding high on a feeling, his heart soaring, mind reeling. He sets to work on dinner immediately.

* * *

They eat cider glazed sea scallops, green beans, stuffed acorn squash and russet baked potatoes with lots of butter and sour cream. It goes well with the crisp, sweet apple cider Arthur made earlier. They talk little as they stuff delicious food in their mouths. Eames likes watching Arthur's eyes light up as he takes hesitant bites, them turning into bigger ones, mixing all the food together and finally shoveling it in his perfect mouth, all table manners forgotten.

They switch to wine later when they retire inside. Eames is wiping the counter watching Arthur fiddle with the ancient stereo system in the living room.

Arthur proves to be quite handy. He's on his knees, tools laid out on the threadbare rug within reach and he's prying off the cover of the dusty stereo peering inside. Eames watches him from the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, feeling like he's peeking into a world he has no right to look into. He doesn't even know where Arthur found tools. It seems he's become better aquatinted with the shack than Eames has.

Arthur is half talking to himself, half talking to Eames as he removes this and that, unscrewing things, peering at things curiously in his dirty fingers, blowing at dusty bits, eyebrows furrowed, swearing softly in his slightly alcohol slurred speech. Eames wants to come up right behind him, take his chin and lift it upwards, bend down and slip him a kiss.

He watches him instead as he moves around on his knees, making a mess, losing tools inside the stereo, knocking his head on the shelf above, swearing loudly it turning into soft chuckles. Eames can only smile warmly, his fingers itching to hold the irresistible creature that's behind glass.

He fixes it miraculously after a time.

"I still lost the screwdriver in there somewhere," he tells Eames sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his head, dirty and dusty fingers straightening his once clean waistcoat, his face a bit sweaty. Eames hands him a fresh glass a wine and smiles in way of thanks.

Only the AM works.

They sit at the lumpy, old couch looking through yellowing books from the leaning bookshelf, drinking their wine, songs from the 20's and 30's filtering into the room from the ancient stereo that Arthur fixed. It's tinny sound is almost soothing.

After a time and Eames looses track on what number glass of wine he is on he zeros in on the song that is playing. He thinks he knows it. Talk turns to music and then dancing.

Arthur's face is pink and flushed from wine. "I don't dance on principal."

Eames is up from his position on the couch and peers down at Arthur who is looking a bit glassy and faraway.

"It's because you don't know how," he regrets it the minute it leaves his mouth and anticipates a snarky remark or cold look from Arthur but he only nods faintly and shrugs.

The copious amount of wine has made him extra daring and he pulls a somewhat reluctant and drunk Arthur from the couch.

They laugh, faces red as Eames positions Arthur's hands on him.

"It can be like this," and he takes Arthurs hands and puts them on Eames' shoulders and he puts his own on either side of Arthur's slim hips. Arthur is watching Eames' hands intently as he works.

"Or like this," he moves one of Arthur's hands to his own waist, takes his other and wraps their fingers together, their arms sticking out and up in a true dancers pose. They both laugh a little shakily as Eames tries to lead Arthur around the little shabby living room to the sweet song.

Arthur has two left feet but Eames hardly cares when he steps on his toes or knocks into him when he's supposed to take a turn.

The song ends and Arthur removes his hand from Eames' waist and Eames does the same but their other hands are busy, still knotted together as their arms relax at their sides.

"I would ask you where you learned to dance but I'm afraid to ask," Arthur asks almost under his breath, his words a little adorably slurred.

Eames is very aware of their hands still clasped, too afraid to move. It feels like blood is pounding much too hard, he can feel every beat of it against Arthur's skin.

And then Arthur is releasing him, reaching for his wineglass in a blink of an eye.

"You can have upstairs. I don't mind sleeping down here."

There's only one bed in the tiny two bedroom shack. The other "bedroom" is set up like a little office.

Arthur shrugs, nestled back into the couch. "Don't mind…" he trails off, eye lids heavy, voice thick with sleep.

Eames is able to catch the wineglass before it hits the floor a few minutes later, it having gone slack in Arthur's grasp.

He takes off Arthur's shoes, positions his limp body on the couch, throws the afghan over him and thinks he could definitely get used to this routine. He shuts the lights off and heads upstairs, his body still holding phantom touches from Arthur's hands.

* * *

IV

Eames never questions Arthur about why he chooses to stay with him.

He thinks he hears him mumble: "You're so much closer than my hotel…," once by way of an off handed and half assed explanation. But it's because of the ocean, the view, the salty breeze, the sand, the short, pleasant walk to the factory, the shack that's grown on him through his adorable grunts and huffs of impatience and irritation and Eames' excellent cooking. Eames convinces himself it's because of all these things.

It's been two weeks. Arthur's things are littered all over, mixing comfortably with Eames' meager processions. He continues to sleep on the couch, the living room turned into his bedroom of sorts, never complaining while Eames sleeps upstairs on the springy full bed with the faded white quilt aching for Arthur to slip in next to him some cold nights. They're roommates and nothing more. Sometimes gliding around each other. But something seems odd to Eames when he tests the word in his brain-"roommates". It doesn't seem like the right word but again he doesn't voice this. Sometimes they both are content with them doing their own thing in the evenings. Arthur peels apples and cuts pumpkins to make pies in the kitchen, making a horrible mess while Eames lounges on the sand ridden porch, watches the ocean turn colors and reads.

The job should already be over with. The short job turns into a long job. Again, neither of them complains.

The job, despite Cobb and Johnny's protests and irritation with the client, is going smoothly.

Eames was originally planned to forge one of the mark's co-workers. With the second part or second level of the extraction Eames will also have to forge the woman supposedly involved with the mark.

He tails her, follows her, and observes her. Watches her from across the outdoor café, sipping his espresso the same way she does, mirroring her actions and ticks. He deems her an open book after the third day of following. She won't be hard to forge at all.

The co-worker is a bit tougher as he is more reserved, his actions and movements not on as much display as the young woman. His patterns are also not as clean and straight forward. The young woman has routines where as the co-worker seems to do things more spontaneously, making it difficult and sometimes damn near impossible to follow and observe him closely. Normally Eames would pipe in and suggest that they use someone else, talk to the client and see if there is anyone else he could forge, anyone else that the mark would confide it but Eames sees it as a challenge and maybe it's Arthur's almost always cheery mood or the autumn, salty air and he doesn't bring it up.

* * *

Hours, days, weeks fly by and dissolve into one. Eames looses track of time and should be disturbed by this but is not.

He comes home to the beach house every night, sometimes Arthur walking by his side and it's just that-home. It can no longer be affectionately called the "shack" because Arthur takes pleasure in cleaning and fixing things and in what feels like no time at all it's very cozy, comfortable and livable, almost too livable. Again Eames should be disturbed, maybe even wary but he is not. He's looking at Arthur and the beach house, now their beach house, through glass-if he disturbs anything it will all come crashing down around him.

He wonders how long it will last, falls asleep every night hoping he won't wake with Arthur's things gone, him changing his mind, leaving without a trace.

* * *

Things are still the same at the factory, when they're working. Arthur still has that pleasurable glow but he doesn't give him the time of day. It's like an on/off switch-he treats Eames differently when they are out of the factory, away from work. At work he is definitely more pinched and "on".

But he catches glimpses of sweetness and "off" poke through.

He'll bring Eames coffee, compliment his shoes. Sometimes he'll even whistle a little as he pours over files, shooting Eames a little sly, embarrassed smile.

They were on umpteenth hour of working late, their extraction date fast approaching. Eames is fixing new coffee. He realizes faintly that it's just the two of them and he's not sure how that happened, when the others left. Obvious things are slipping past him now. He used to be so aware of his surroundings, prided himself on being on top of his game like that at all times. But things are different now.

Arthur is on him at once and it's like they're at the beach house. He shoving Eames' fingers away, taking the filter out of his hand, complaining loudly that he can't fix coffee correctly, a slight smile in his voice. They bicker almost jokingly. Eames flings coffee filters at him as Arthur scoops coffee into the machine. He's hovering over him but Arthur's not complaining. Eames feels he's allowed this. They are alone now and somehow he feels special he gets to see Arthur like this.

Arthur is fiddling with the coffee machine when Eames notices one of Arthur's cufflinks has come undone. When Arthur finishes, having pressed the button to start it, still complaining and semi mocking him, Eames takes his hand, turns it and helps him with his cufflink. Arthur goes silent as Eames fixes it. His hand is on his wrist, he smoothes and tugs his sleeve a little to fix it as well and somehow his hand slides down further than his wrist and then their fingers are brushing and his hand is enveloping Arthur's as he's fishing out mugs from the cabinet by his head with his other hand. They're both silent as they listen to the coffee machine gurgle and hiss, they both seem fascinated with it and keep their eyes trained to it carefully. Arthur only releases his hand when the coffee is done.

Eames wants to grab his wrist, place Arthur's arms around his waist, his arms at his neck and back and hold him close, kiss and whisper into his hair, lean in further and kiss his ear, leave a trail and finally end up at his mouth.

But Arthur is pouring them both a cup, a slight blush on his cheeks and all Eames can do is take it and mumble a thank you as he walks numbly back to his desk, his one hand tingly and still warm from his.

* * *

V

Its three days until the extraction. It's happening on Monday when the mark is scheduled to have a colonoscopy. They'll have about three hours as the mark will be in a hospital bed, recovering from the procedure. Plenty of time to do the two levels of the dream. It'll just be Eames and Cobb entering, Arthur being the lookout and Johnny providing backup if needed. Everything is laid out and ready. They cannot be any more prepared, having gone over the plan thousands of times it seems. Cobb gives them the weekend off.

It's almost Halloween.

Upon walking back from the factory that Friday in their usual walk back to the beach house Arthur spies a flyer stapled to a telephone pole. Arthur stops to read it, something catching his eye and Eames peers at it over his shoulder, reading it with him.

It's a Cape Cod Halloween festival for the coming weekend. The market square and streets will be blocked off and there will be local growers selling their crops, pumpkin carving, music in the streets, vendors and other fall activities.

After Arthur reads it he keeps walking, not saying a word. Eames knows he wants to go, can see it in his eyes but Arthur's too proud to ask, probably thinking he'll look silly if he did so he doesn't. Eames doesn't mention it until after they've finished their bangers and mash-his grandmother's recipe and they've retired on the front porch, drinking good scotch and smoking cigars.

Arthur is breathing deeply through his nose, eyelids drooping, swirling his drink, relaxed back into the wooden beach chair, looking out to the waves.

"You know we could use some fruit and vegetables since you used up all the apples again for that pie you tried to make," Eames puffs on his cigar looking out as the tide retracts.

Arthur makes a noise of affirmation.

"I'm going to go to the market square tomorrow, see what they got."

Arthur breathes out smoke, distributes ash over the porch and nods.

"I'll come with you."

And this is how they go to the Cape Cod Halloween festival.

Arthur is one big ball of quiet excitement come Saturday-his body practically humming and vibrating as he flits from room to room, unable to keep still. Eames suppresses a laugh when he finally suggests to Arthur coolly after lunch if they should shove off and get some groceries. Arthur practically jumps up and grabs his coat, nodding far too eagerly and is out the door before Eames has even shrugged on his own coat.

They really do need produce but Eames figures that can wait. He wants Arthur to have his fun first.

The New England air has gotten significantly colder and Eames blows into his hands as they make their way to the square, Arthur practically bouncing as he steps. The air is heavy with the smell of burning leaves. It's also crisp-all things fall.

Their warm breath expels out in front of them in little puffs as they approach the square. It's decorated in true Halloween and autumn fashion. Lots of orange twinkly lights hang from across telephone poles like Christmas lights. There's carved pumpkins everywhere, fake cobwebs hanging from lights and other kitschy and endearing décor strewn about. Arthur's breath catches in his throat, eyes wide as he takes it in. Eames stands a step back from him and lets him, not wanting to ruin the moment for him. And then Arthur is dragging him into a shop and is buying him a scarf and gloves.

"It's getting colder," he mumbles as he fishes out his wallet.

He waves off the bag to the shop clerk and then he's winding a warm, soft, baby blue scarf around Eames' neck. "It brings out your eyes," he mumbles as he fixes his scarf and hands him the black, soft leather gloves. Eames is thankful they don't match. Their faces are an equal match of red as they suit up. Arthur's scarf is a brown tweed and it's hard, so hard not to grab Arthur by the soft scarf with his rosy cheeks and wide, excited eyes and pull him into a kiss.

He watches him put on a brown, newsboy type hat that covers his ears, brown leather gloves and then he's exiting the shop, not waiting for Eames, eager to get back to whatever is outside.

People are milling around in costume and Arthur takes delight in this, pointing some out to Eames like he can't see them himself.

They walk the square, Arthur stopping at everything. Eames lets him, let's him do whatever he wants, lets him drag him wherever he wants to go.

Eames swears he sees a familiar face in a passing crowd of people, wants to pause and take a look but then Arthur is dragging him by the sleeve to a "build your own caramel apple" stand.

Arthur pays for Eames to do one too even though Eames doesn't really care for candy or caramel apples but he lets him. He knows Arthur would eat his too if he didn't want it.

Eames laughs as Arthur elbows his way to the front of the line, pushing mostly children out of the way, pure eagerness on his face, pulling Eames along.

They watch as the clerk dips their green apples in heavy caramel. Eames swears he can see Arthur's mouth water. And then they can pick from the multitude of toppings. Arthur has a hard time deciding so Eames goes first. He picks peanuts, chocolate and M&M's candies-all things he knows Arthur likes.

After what feels like a lifetime Arthur chooses chocolate, white chocolate drizzled over it, marshmallows and walnuts.

Eames whispers to the clerk not to wrap Arthur's up as she rings them up.

With huge caramel apples in tow, Arthur digging into his right away they walk the square some more. Again Eames thinks he spies someone he recognizes and then Arthur is taking his elbow and then they are picking out blackberries. Arthur feeds one to Eames unexpectedly to both of their embarrassment and pleasure.

It's evening before Eames knows it. Again the obvious seems to slip through his fingers, catches him unawares.

They've paused so Arthur can work on his ginormous caramel apple. It's gotten significantly more crowded and there's nowhere to sit. Arthur has a look of pure love on his face as he they stand under a street lamp close together. Arthur's face is covered with chocolate and caramel and he doesn't seem to care-he's a little boy in love with his native haunts and autumn. Eames thinks it's probably the most irresistible thing he's done yet. He's all eager eyes and flushed face from dragging Eames around and around.

And Eames can't take it anymore, not one more instant. It's been almost two months of living together having to endure Arthur's absolute adorableness and love for his old stomping grounds and the season, them gliding around each other, barely touching and suddenly he's shoving Arthur's hat over his eyes, taking his sticky, chocolaty chin in his fingers and is kissing him, kissing him like he's wanted to for the eight years of knowing him, the months living together and everything else.

He needs this. He's been in denial about the job coming to a close soon, this life coming to a close soon. He knows that after Monday their time of playing house will be through. Arthur will leave this place, his native lands and go off on another job and Eames on a different one, their lives splitting off from one another once again. Arthur will be buttoned up tight, closed up, cut off, polished, cold, shined and groomed, he'll be "on" again and Eames won't be able to stop it from happening.

The beach house they built up together will be left gutted and empty once more.

Eames twines his fingers in Arthur's free ones and he kisses him deeply because he needs it once before Arthur flies off, before the glass is removed, shifted, broken or replaced. He isn't sure anymore and doesn't care as he glides his tongue over his sickly sweet one and Arthur is tense and cold in his arms, not struggling or protesting but not reciprocating either.

And then there's a loud boom in the air and the sky explodes in fireworks. Eames jerks away from him surprised and both their faces are glued to the dazzling night sky. Eames keeps a steady, gloved hand in Arthur's, their fingers laced together as the sky turns different colors, reflected back in their eyes. He only releases Eames' hand when they are back at the beach house, almost immediately collapsing on the couch/his bed and nodding off almost immediately after he shrugs off his coat and shoes. He must have been exhausted-all the fresh air and exciting new things. Eames wonders faintly if it's ok to kiss him all the time now as he locks the front door. They have one day left. Maybe they can go up to Boston, make a day of it. The thought makes him smile as he enters the kitchen, remembering and then cursing himself. He does an about face. They had bought no produce besides some blackberries. The festival is still going on for a couple hours so he shrugs his coat back on, kisses Arthur's sleeping forehead, murmuring in his hair that he'll be back soon and slips back outside.

* * *

VI

He's glad for the new scarf and gloves as the night has turned quite bitterly cold.

He's hurrying-all thoughts of Arthur, wondering if he can convince him to share the bed with him tonight. He only has one more night with him; he wants to make it count.

He's smiling, lost in thought. He rounds a corner and is about to head down some stairs to the market square below when he feels a sudden, quick presence behind him.

_Three of them_, he thinks before he's being shoved and flying in the air, his feet missing the steps completely and then his body is meeting cold concrete, tumbling down stairs, feeling and hearing sickening cracks and faintly realizing it's his bones breaking.

The fall feels like forever, like he's suspended in time, his mind rattled like his brain has come loose from his head. His vision is swirling and doubling, pain exploding throughout his body and he can't pinpoint from where exactly-it's everywhere. And then there's three faces dancing in front of his vision and he recognizes one. One he had seen in the crowd earlier and Eames closes his eyes because he knows he is done, tears sliding down his face and he doesn't care.

* * *

His eyes blink open and the environment has changed. It takes him a moment to try to comprehend where he is. It's dark and damp, only one small light hanging from the ceiling. His body is in so much agony that it's hard to breathe, hard to think. He thinks he has two or three fractured or broken ribs and arm and leg. His vision is totally shot in one eye, hoping it's just because blood got in it. His head feels too hot and his body is doused in sweat.

His head lolls. He pathetically tries to move but his broken body is secured tightly to a chair.

He isn't going anywhere.

Men seem to materialize out of thin air. One is rolling a metal cart toward Eames; the others glare down at him menacingly, with hungry, mad, glistening eyes.

The man with the cart stops when he's right in front him, cracking knuckles, looking eager. Eames spies the cart knowing already what's going to be on it: pliers, hacksaw, hammer, meat tenderizer, shears, ice pick, restraints, blindfolds, knives, and various devices to pry or hold skin open. He sees them all resting on the cart, glistening like surgeons tools. He's only surprised to see the small tank of gasoline, funnel and tube. Eames faintly realizes that one or more of them are ex military just like Eames. They even may have been interrogators. Eames sees the mark's co-worker stare down at him-eyes black, face hard as stone. Nowhere in the information Eames was given did it say he had a military background. Eames is stunned. Arthur would never miss something like that, something so obvious and important.

His thoughts are silenced by a violent slap to his face making his head flop stupidly to one side, pain erupting, the room spinning.

He hears knuckles being cracked again, vicious laughs being exchanged.

"You didn't think I noticed you tailing me did you? Didn't know I had hired a bodyguard after the second day and had them follow you around as you were trying to follow me, you prick!" he screamed right in his ear.

"I've been in the military and in special services. I know when someone's tailing me," he spits in Eames' face.

He doesn't hear much after that; just the loud pounding of his heart and blood behind his ears and then his face is being taken between two pinch-like fingers, being twisted up directly into the mark's co-worker's snarly face.

"You're going to tell me right now why you were following me around or else we're going to start removing fingernails or worse," he yanks hard at one of Eames' nails with his fingers as if to prove a point.

Eames has endured a little torture before but not like this. Not when his body already feels shattered and has betrayed him. Not when he feels totally blindsided and bewildered. He usually always sees things coming, even torture.

When the mark's co-worker doesn't get a response from Eames he nods his head at the other men and Eames closes his eyes. He knows it's starting. He wonders when he'll pass out completely from the pain, only to be revived and put through it again. He wonders how long he'll last in the state he's in-four, maybe five hours tops?

He shudders and squeezes his eyes as he feels cold metal and pressure on a finger.

_I'm done, love, I'm done._

_At least we had a little time…we built a home out of sand and glass together._

_I got to see you, really see you…I got to kiss you once._

And then his vision is white hot as pain erupts at his finger and he's glad he can't see the blood spurting everywhere as his nail is ripped completely off. He screams until his voice is raw and then voices are yelling at him to talk but he can't talk.

He can only see Arthur as he curls up onto his makeshift bed in the tiny living room, dark curls on the white pillow, him working the beach with the sun on his pale skin, his pants and shirt sleeves rolled up and he's laughing as he chases the tide, him scooping out handfuls of pumpkin innards, hands orange and sticky as he dutifully carves out eyes and mouth, giving it to Eames, him watching the leaves fall from almost barren trees, one almost hitting him square in the eye and he clings to Eames half in shock and half laughing, him curled up against the radiator on the bare wooden floor with a book in one of Eames' old sweatshirts.

He sees all of this through his tear stained eyes as he feels cold metal and pressure on another finger.

_Love, if we had more time…_

_If the job was longer…_

He thinks the pain is one iota less excruciating as another nail is ripped from his skin without warning but he screams all the same.

He screams and screams in agony as they finish with nail ripping and switch to bashing his knee again and again with what he guesses is either the hammer or meat tenderizer. And then he doesn't think anything at all.

* * *

He awakes to cold water being doused on him. His body is the definition of pain. He is pain. He writhes and twists in the chair, his body too big and swollen for it now.

He sputters and shakes violently, feeling he may vomit and then the client's competition-the mark himself is staring down at him.

He's yelling directly into Eames' face but Eames can't make anything out, his ears ringing and it's like he's floating above it all, above the pain and madness, like it's all a dream.

He receives hard blows to his stomach that makes him snap out of a little, the fresh pain bubbling up and clutching him, his head hanging pathetically. Harsh voices scream at him again and then his head is being tipped back and a funnel is being forced into his mouth. He can see the gas being rolled over, a tube being connected.

Eames closes his eyes because the tears are overwhelming them.

_I'm done, love, I'm done._

_We we're stupid, blinded, too caught up. We didn't see…we didn't see…_

Powerful hands are holding him as he struggles. He sees the tube hovering over the funnel, liquid rushing out, the gasoline smell hitting his nose and then it's traveling down his throat and he imagines his insides are being burned to a crisp as the deadly toxins fill him up.

And he's telling Arthur in his mind to not forget to take the trash out on Monday, telling him various things about the upkeep on the house they once shared sweetly together, his last wishes.

_Keep it, darling…keep it…so you'll remember…_

And then he doesn't remember anything as the gasoline and darkness swallows him up completely.

* * *

His eyelids hurt too much as he flutters them a little in attempt to test them. Everything hurts way too much so he settles on closing them and tries to focus on just breathing but something feels like it's stuck in his throat. He wonders if it's still the gasoline.

He thinks he hears something, tries to pinpoint it but it's hard. Everything is too hard.

"Eames."

He thinks he knows that voice.

The voice is very close and he feels a warm hand on his forehead, sweeping away hair in the kindest of gestures, feels a light kiss to it a second later followed by what sounds like faint sobs. Eames tries to smile but something is in his mouth preventing him. Again, it's too hard so he decides to just rest his eyes instead.

* * *

He chances moving his eyes, the only thing he feels he can move. The pain is bad but not unbearable this time. Everything is white and bright, it hurts his eyes to look at it. He blinks several hundred times he guesses and he can only see out of one eye. He thinks he may be alive but he's not sure.

His one good eye sweeps the room, settling on a solitary figure slumped in a chair next to him on his right side, eyes closed, dark hair sticking out boldly against the white walls.

He tries to work his mouth, his lips, his tongue but again something is in the way, preventing him. He can only feebly stare. He tests other things, inspects. His right arm is the only thing that is workable though his fingers are bandaged. His left leg is hanging, suspended in a cast. His right ankle doesn't want to move so he figures it's in a cast. His left arm too is in a cast. He feels bandages wrapped around his skin as he shifts ever so slightly in the hospital gown. He touches the apparatus at his mouth, feels that it is a tube that's helping him breathe. This all saps his energy and his right hand flops to the side of the bed, hitting the little rail in the process.

Arthur stirs at once and Eames has never been so happy to see him in his life.

He sees him blink awake, wipe at his red eyes and stretch. He notices Eames and he almost jumps, relief washing over his haggard features.

He's on him at once, taking his right hand in his, face contorted in anguish and pain. He grips his hand, hangs his head as he hears him murmur: "Thank God, thank God, thank God…"

* * *

Arthur stays with him the entire time, through it all. He looks haggard, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, deep bags under his eyes and he's looking like he hasn't eaten or slept. Eames guesses by his stubble, almost full blown facial hair donning the other man's face that he's been in the hospital for at least a week already. This shocks him, enrages him. He's fucked up the job for them.

Arthur sits by his side, takes his one good hand in his and talks to him.

First it seems to fill the silence as he's practically babbling in a rush, relief that he's alive. Then it moves to Eames himself.

"Three broken ribs, shattered left knee, broken fibula from your fall on the same leg, broken radius in your left arm, fractured right ankle, three fingernails removed from your right hand, left eye temporarily swollen shut and…"Arthur chokes back something and Eames hopes it isn't a sob, he hates seeing him this way, not taking care of himself.

"And the gasoline poisoning…they performed emergency surgery on you to remove the burnt skin in your esophagus, intestines and stomach. You…you almost died…" and his lips are quivering and Eames is motioning for the legal pad and pen that a nurse left him the other day so that he could write down what he needed since he still needed the breathing machine to help him, his organs still too weak and raw to work on their own.

Arthur hands it to him, blinking away tears.

"It's all my fault," he mumbles, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

_What happened to them?_ Eames writes sloppily on the legal pad because it's been bothering him and he wants to know if the job was abandoned or what.

Arthur blinks at the words on the pad, his eyes going dark after a while. Eames knows that look.

"They've been taken care of," he says darkly and he looks away, suddenly fascinated with the controls on Eames' beside remote.

Eames touches Arthur's hand and Arthur looks at him after a while, his face a mask of pain.

"I hunted them down, Eames. I killed them…and I wasn't nice about it. All of them-the mark, his co-worker and his henchmen," Arthur snorts a little in disgust. "The client walked away pleased-his completion obliterated…we just didn't get paid fully for it."

Eames can only stare widely at him with his one good eye.

Arthur catches his stare and a sad smile crosses his face.

"We'll be safe now…plenty of time for you to recover."

Arthur, the bastard, depresses the button on his control to dispense the pain medication. He feels drowsy almost immediately.

Arthur leans in and kisses his forehead and Eames can feel fresh wetness at Arthur's eyes.

"Just sleep, love," he murmurs and Eames does just that.

* * *

It's another week before the tube can be removed from his throat.

Arthur has never left his side for more than a couple hours.

Arthur smiles when Eames can work his mouth again. He still feels like he's in constant pain but Arthur being there, holding his hand, comforting him and helping him with whatever he needs alleviates some of that pain.

Arthur smoothes back Eames' hair affectionately from his forehead when Eames smiles for the first time in weeks. Arthur buries his face in the crook of his neck and Eames knows he's trying not to cry.

"You'll be fine. They say you'll be ok enough in no time that I can take you home," he murmurs into his neck.

Eames knows he is lying to placate him. He'll probably be in the hospital for another week or so.

"Are you taking me back to the beach house? Is it our home?" his voice is strange sounding to his ears, thick, weak, wheezy and gargled after not using his vocal chords in so long. It also burns horribly.

Arthur slips his hand into his and squeezes it, his face lifting from his neck.

"Yes, you idiot. Yes, it always was. I bought it." A solitary tear slides down his face and his lips are trembling. "I was going to surprise you on that Sunday and tell you..." He kisses his hand, one of the only things that doesn't hurt and Arthur closes his eyes.

"I love you and you better not fucking die. You better get well," he chokes.

"I plan on it," he whispers because it still burns to talk.

Arthur buries his face in Eames' hand and cries softly.

* * *

Arthur drives him home, back to their beach house when he is released. Where he gets a car Eames has no idea.

Arthur looks more alive, a little color returning to his features and his face doesn't look as sunken in.

Eames has been worried about him this entire time. To say he was a wreck would be putting it mildly. Eames thinks he was self inflicting torture maybe a little bit, feeling guilty and he also thinks he didn't get a full night's rest the entire time Eames was in the hospital. Eames would write to him on the legal pad, urging him to leave to at least sleep but Arthur would refuse, saying he wouldn't leave his side.

Eames eyes are transfixed to the window as the now graying ocean rolls past him.

Arthur touches his cheek affectionately.

"Missed it didn't you?"

And then he sees it down below the small hill. He can just make it out- their little beach house nestled into the sand.

He closes his eyes and sighs and Arthur kisses his cheek.

It's not easy work as Arthur helps him out of the car and rolls Eames' wheelchair down the little hill. Nothing is going to be easy for the point man as taking care of Eames is not going to be any picnic. He can't walk nor use his left arm at all and he has to be careful of what he eats and also has to take medication at certain times. He'll have to change his bandages every day and monitor him closely. If Arthur is put out he doesn't show it.

Arthur rolls him in his wheelchair past the ocean, their ocean and Eames smiles. And then they're staring up at their house but it's different. Eames sees that Arthur has taken care of it in his absence. When he was supposed to be showering or sleeping Arthur installed a ramp up into the house and had painted and fixed the exterior of the house as well. It looked brand new.

"I wanted you to come home to something nice," he whispers in his ear and kisses it, making him shiver.

Eames can only stare up at it stupidly; can only stare up at Arthur in awe.

He wheels a still stupefied Eames inside.

Arthur wheels him into what used to be the living room but has been transformed into a full blown bedroom complete with a low to the ground king size bed, new arm chair with a foot stool, dresser and nightstand. All old furniture is gone save the bookshelf which Arthur has fixed and of course the stereo.

Eames can't find any words so he just smiles and laughs a little in disbelief.

"You did this all for me?" he whispers out of amazement after a time.

Arthur rests his head on top of his and whispers: "All for you. All for you…"

Arthur crouches down to his level and rests his head on Eames' knee.

"What do you need? What would you like?"

Eames wants to protest, doesn't want to be a burden but he knows he'll have to get used to Arthur asking this as he is completely at his mercy for the next couple months.

Eames smiles. "Just you. Though I would like to try out that bed," he winks.

Arthur laughs a little and he thinks he's getting the old Arthur back, the one that smiled and laughed all the time with the salt breeze in his hair and morning sun on his skin. Arthur's face lights up a little and he looks more alive than he's seen in him in the past three weeks.

He helps Eames into the bed which takes quite a while, most of his limbs useless.

Arthur snuggles against him to his surprise once he gets him situated.

"I thought it would be nice to sleep next to you for a change," he's tracing a figure eight into Eames' shirt, a slow blush on his cheeks.

"You never once asked me in all that time," and he's studying Eames' face. "I would have you know…" he trails off.

"How long did you know?" Eames rasps out and he isn't talking about sleeping next to Arthur and Arthur knows this because his face falls.

Eames put two and two together somewhere along the way since he was alone with his thoughts a lot in the hospital. He just wanted Arthur to say it out loud, to confirm his suspicions.

When Arthur doesn't respond Eames continues. "Why didn't you tell me?" his whisper is gentle but he does feel some anger and hurt bubbling up.

"Because I was selfish…because I still am selfish," and then he's cupping Eames' face and is kissing him deeply, all questions and thoughts pushed out of Eames' mind, his anger and hurt melting away.

"I love you," he breathes into Eames' mouth and then he's breaking away just a little so he can talk, their lips still very close. "At first I moved in with you to protect you, so I could watch your back. I knew the mark and his friend, his co-worker, had some heavy military background, experience in interrogation and torture and so forth. I wanted to tell you, warn you but I was so afraid. I also got so used to living with you and got swept up in living here in our house and our little world and I didn't want anything to change, didn't want you to pull out or leave the job… leave me," he sniffles a little and Eames nudges his nose, a weak attempt to get him to stop torturing himself.

Once Arthur regains his composure enough he continues. "But then protecting you kind of dissolved into the background and faded away, almost forgotten and then I was living with you because I wanted to live with you and I fell in love with you and this house and just everything," his shudders and closes his eyes.

"I was selfish, I wanted it all. I bought the house and hoped maybe you would stay with me…totally forgetting the reason why I wanted to stay with you in the first place. I was stupid, careless, wrapped up in only my wants and needs…and then you're taken from me and almost killed by the people I was trying to protect you from," Arthur's jaw clenches before he takes a deep, shaky breath, his eyes open and they're wet.

"I don't know what I would have done if they'd killed you…"

"But they didn't," Eames whispers, smoothing some hair behind Arthur's ear with his one good hand, interrupting him because he's heard enough and he's tired of Arthur torturing himself- it going on for weeks. There had been enough torture done to one person he didn't want another person going through it.

"Eames, I'm sorry," his voice breaks. "I know it isn't enough to fix things and why you still want me around I don't know but I'll do anything I can…"

"Arthur," he whispers sternly.

"I love you dearly but please do shut up," he smiles. Arthur stares at him wide eyed.

"Just take care of me and the house that's all I ask…"Arthur seems shocked but the shock turns into a smile and he seems to have found that little glow that's brought on by being back in his territory, the glow that Eames loves so much.

"Oh and one more thing," he breathes and Arthur nods.

"Don't stop loving this area or autumn because of what happened…because…" Eames can't really think of a valid reason. "Because it's very fetching on you and because...because I say so."

Arthur is smiling crookedly and nods. "I think I can do that," and he kisses him, almost knocking the wind out of Eames.

Arthur finds the fingers of Eames' right hand and weaves theirs together. Eames doesn't want them anywhere else. He imagines the glass that he once had over Arthur has shattered for good. There's nothing in between them now, Eames is allowed to touch him and Arthur is allowed to roam free, to fly but he knows he'll always come back to him, to the house they built, to the life they were starting together.

* * *

Afterwards 

Arthur nurses him without one complaint or grimace. He has to practically carry him everywhere, help him in and out of bed, changing bandages, feeding him medication, fixing food (and Arthur is really not that good in the kitchen), bathe him, help him to the toilet, dress him and shave him and he does this all the while with a smile on his face.

Sometimes Eames wakes in the middle of the night screaming, bathed in cold sweat as he relives the torture. Arthur hands are on him immediately, touching him gently, whispering reassurances into his hair. "I'm here, I'm here. You're ok." And he'll curl against him and hold him until Eames falls asleep once more.

But in better times they still laugh together and Arthur frequently wheels him out, down the front patio on the ramp and out to the now snow covered sand and gray ocean.

When Eames is strong enough Arthur sits on his lap while Eames is in his chair, nuzzling him close and Eames moves them down the beach. Sometimes they'll read a book or look up at the stars, Arthur insisting Eames point out the constellations to him.

Eames can walk around on crutches by the time Christmas comes, his ankle healed. The living room is converted back to a proper living room, new and better furniture put in and the big bed is upstairs where it belongs for the two of them to share properly.

He's a lot better, improving every day.

Arthur is in the kitchen trying to make gingerbread cookies, making a huge mess in the process and Eames hobbles up to him while his back is turned. He grabs Arthur's waist from behind and pulls him close, something he's wanted to do for so long but unable as he has been indisposed. He buries his face into his neck and inhales deeply, planting a kiss. Arthur is unusually quiet and still in his arms.

"What's wrong?" he breathes, his voice is all but back to normal again.

Arthur's shoulders slump as he slowly turns around, his lips turned down in a frown.

"I suppose now that you're better you'd like to start planning on when we're leaving to take a job. You can get around pretty well, can still tail people and forge, can move around in the airports now…"

"Arthur," he interrupts. He takes his chin in his fingers and draws his face upwards to meet his eyes.

"I quite like it here. I thought maybe we could stay awhile."

Arthur regards him with wide eyes, he blinks at him for a few heartbeats in disbelief it changing to adoration and his eyes round and soften.

"You mean?" he breathes.

"Yes," Eames breathes back and Arthur grips him and kisses him fiercely because they both want to stay, even with Eames doing better, it being unspoken between them for too long, they need each other, all jobs they could be taking apart from one another long forgotten. They're tired of running. They finally have a place that they can come back to, can come home to.

They cling to each other and their hands find each other as the world dissolves around them as they stand in their small, warm kitchen, in their small beach home, nestled in the sand in their little piece of Cape Cod.


End file.
